Letters from War
by omishiloh
Summary: My dear son...she wrote with her heart in her hands. Eldarion discovers her letters. In-progress.
1. Prologue

Foreword: Even since I heard this song, I wanted to write some piece to accompany it. It so happened I thought of Aragorn and Gilraen, who are the ideal mother and son, and whose relationship is somewhat vague. It is understood she was extremely devoted, as she "kept no hope for herself", but beyond that, her thoughts, dreams, and fears for her son are not known. I hope to fill the gap in a little, by providing a simple idea of her perspective. A companion piece, from Aragorn's perspective, is planned.

Warnings: Mildly AU.

Letters from War

_Prologue_

It was given to him on some past birthday, and it became one of his most valuable possessions. Not for itself, but for what it contained. On one particular day, after his passing, it was discovered in a corner, somewhat meek and forlorn, though not unloved.

Eldarion, by familial obligation, was made to sort through his father's possessions, to see what could be kept, and what re-used or donated. He entered the room to find it glowing with daylight; the large window and accompanying seat overlooking the city had been one of his father's most occupied places. He smiled to see the room alight; it had been so during nearly every time he had entered his father's personal chamber. The sunlight gently touched his father's beloved personal effects, already laid out upon the bed: the ring of Barahir, a few maps, a woven pouch of Northern design, and a small, unassuming key.

As Eldarion examined each item, he wondered at its history. He had certainly been told of his father's greet deeds-and exploits-during the War, but never had he received explanation of personal value of any item in his father's hands. _Not unusual_, he thought to himself, for his father had been well-known for succinctness and nothing more. Yet he lingered over the key, and resolved to discover its meaning.

For some time he searched for what it might belong to, dismissing the rest of the afternoon duties. It was a time of mourning, and if the newly-crowned king did not appear at the evening meal, his absence would not be questioned overmuch.

It was many hours after the midday meal that he found what the key fit: a wooden chest, lined with a single vein of mithril, forming a delicate design at its base. The lock was simple, and the key turned easily, though obviously the chest had not been opened for quite a while.

Inside was a bundle of letters, tied carefully with leather. Eldarion breathlessly lifted the bundle out, that he might read their contents. His curiosity would not release now, particularly since he did not know the sender of the letters.

He untied the leather, fumbling with the knot-it was tight!-and skimmed through. None of the letters seemed very long, though that did not demean their quality. Indeed, most of the letters were filled with tender words and memories on all range of topics. Quite interested, and with the time to spare, Eldarion moved from the floor to the bed, disregarding the other items placed there. He settled himself against the pillows and blankets, and began to read.

* * *

-to be continued-


	2. Chapter 1

A young woman stirred restlessly by a hearth. She sat in a large rocking chair, especially made for her present size and comfort. Dark hair, wound in a braid, reflected the light of the fire as she bent over some needlework. To all appearances, she was decorating a tunic for her child. In actuality, she was sewing and undoing the same stitches repeatedly, bored almost to tears.

She was not ready for this. Married at a young age, she was supposed to be out gathering heather, or athelas, or some other helpful plant, not kept by the hearth. However, her mother's foresight had indicated a necessary acquiescence to duty, and she had conceded her freedom.

Not that she lacked care or affection for her husband, or the child soon to be born. No, she was merely frustrated with the confinement, and driven distracted by her loneliness. Her husband was out on another patrol-the poor man could not help it-and her mother, though in attendance earlier, had left to tend to some patients in the infirmary portion of the encampment.

Annoyed with the tediousness of stitchery, Gilraen struggled out of her chair and laboriously walked to her chamber. She retrieved from a wooden table a pen, some parchment, ink, and a handkerchief for blotting. She then made her way back to the other room (it had better lighting, and better access to a source of heat with which to dry the ink), and made herself comfortable on the floor, using a spare winter's cloak to sit upon.

She could at least amuse herself with practicing her writing, and who better to write to than her future son? She dipped the pen in the ink.

_My dear son,_

_You are not yet entered into the world, but I have little to fill the days with. Your father is away; being a leader often demands his attentions elsewhere from home. So I sit, and sew, or darn, or sleep. Being in the latter days of blessed condition, and near __your__ Birthing Day, gives me little opportunity or ability to do as I desire. That is, to gather herbs, or cook. Instead, mother visits, performing these duties in my place. _

_I anticipate your journey to my arms, son-as all mothers previous, I put my hope in you to carry our people on._

_Your loving_

_Mother_

* * *

-to be continued-


	3. Chapter 2

Eldarion, as he finished the first letter, reeled.

'My dear son'? If his father had these letters in his possession, then they must be from his mother. Who would, in turn, be Eldarion's grandmother.

He never knew his fore-parents. His mother, though often peppered with questions, would say nothing other than they were all no longer in Middle-Earth. His father had not spoken of them either, saying even less than his mother; more often than not, Eldarion would have to leave his father, as he would drift into a painful silence, and stare ahead, lost in another time.

Here, then, may be the answers he had been searching for, all these long years.

What Eldarion did not realize was the depth to which his answers would reach.

* * *

-to be continued-


	4. Chapter 3

"Get back here!"

An exasperated mother chased her child around the small room. The small boy scampered from chair to table to hearth from chair to table to hearth, mindless of the frustration he was causing the young woman. Finally, he hid behind a table leg and looked mischievously up at his mother. As grey eyes met brown, the mother's face softened and she chuckled.

"For such a youngling, you have great skill in running," she said. And it was true; scarcely two years had passed since his Birthing Day. Her mother, in a recent visit, had remarked on his abilities, saying that they were true foretellings of his destiny. Old healer lore said that the young who advanced rapidly had to grow rapidly…as fighters and survivors. As she had related the information, however, Gilraen's face grew dark. Her mother hastily added, "Yet it may be that he will live in a time of peace. Time will only tell."

Her mother had not visited since that day. Gilraen understood the absence as ominous, and as testament to the truth of the healer lore.

She shook herself from her reverie, and eyed her son. It's a game he wants, she mused. I can play a game. Gilraen then turned away, and sat in the chair, a replacement for the previous occupant. The rocking chair had gone to another woman in circumstances, and to replace it she had received in turn a large, widened model, cushioned by a rare pillow.

She hummed to herself as she untied the leather thong in her hair. It was rather tangled after the chase, and it deserved at least a finger-combing. She made no sign of noticing her son.

Her son, meanwhile, watched with suspicion. Was this a new game? He crept forward.

Still she paid no attention. All her focus was on her hair. Deft fingers ran through it, catching here and there, but eventually smoothing it to manageable degree.

The boy stepped forward again. He really was confused. Why was she not chasing him?

Gilraen watched from the corner of her eye. He was close enough, almost close enough to…

"Ha!" she cried triumphantly as she leaped from her chair and scooped him up. Her son screamed delightedly. He wriggled in her arms, and pointed at the chair.

"Again?" she asked, amused. He nodded.

For hours, it seemed, they played what Aragorn would later call "Sneak Attack": he would creep, as quietly as he could, to wherever she was (chair, hearth, a rock outside) and she would catch him, swinging him through the air.

One last time was begged before Gilraen put him to bed, cradling his favorite toy, a wooden horse, carved by an older lad. He fell asleep quickly, no doubt due to the energy spent during the day.

Gilraen watched him until the image of him was burned into her heart. His hair, short, dark, and tousled; his tunic, rumpled with wear, and faded to a color to match his grey eyes; the wooden horse, affectionately rubbed, held against his chest; and finally, his eyelashes, curled lightly against his cheek.

Her own eyelashes were wet.

She did, then, the only thing she could think to do: pulled some parchment, a pen, and a handkerchief from their places and began to write.

_My dear son,_

_Two years old and already you have won the heart of the encampment. Your destiny has a hand to play in that, certainly, but you have charm like no other child. Most here are tall, grim, and forbidding, even the lads. You, however, seem to bring light whither you go, and in that light we revel. _

_I hope you notice my improvement. I have been practicing writing daily, usually letters to your father. He is away again, though fortunately not as far. He left two weeks ago, and will return soon. I can only wait with anxious heart and breathless hope._

_By the by, you adore your father. When he is home, there is no separating the two of you (unless you wander, as is sometimes your wont!). He carries you on his shoulders throughout the camp, and you giggle at how suddenly tall you are. In more somber moments, you are on his lap, stroking his beard. _

_How you love his beard! You do not ask for kisses from me, but your father! He rubs his chin against you as he kisses you, and you laugh and laugh and laugh. _

_By the second by, an elf recently arrived. It is not one of the sons of Elrond, though they visit often; they accompanied your father on his journey. No, he is their records-keeper; accordingly, he sketches every heir that is born. He has a large journal of many he has drawn, though he assures me that they are not all his drawings. He drew you with your father, and as he did, I asked for a copy. _

_I was afraid to ask, and barely managed a volume louder than a whisper, but he must have heard me, because he promptly smiled and withdrew another parchment from his bag. Enclosed here is that parchment. _

_Keep it close, for it is the best likeness, failing capturing you and your father and attaching you to the parchment. What a sight that would be!_

_It is late, and growing darker. You are asleep, as well I should be. I will join you in sweet dreams. _

_Your loving_

_Mother_

_

* * *

_-to be continued-


	5. Chapter 4

Eldarion smiled to read this letter. So his father was beloved? That was unsurprising, given how he inspired the people of the now-united realm. Outings had to be specially planned, with extra time available; inevitably, the King would find himself extricated in situations that required his personal attentions. There was the wintry day he played with the children as they ran through the streets, with two catching pneumonia (he felt personally responsible; Eldarion remembered his mother having to prevent his father from overtaxing his own health in aid of the young ones). There was also the adventure (not long after his coronation) where, managing to get lost within his own city, the King made friends with some local bandits.

If his father could alter even bandits, then an encampment of his people was no trouble.

He smiled to see the portrait. It showed a little version of his father precisely as described: a toddler perched on a man's lap, tiny hand on the bristly beard. It was obvious they were father-and-son, aside from the intimacy of the pose; both had dark hair and shimmering grey eyes. Eldarion smoothed the parchment and resolved to have it professionally redone, in a larger frame, to hang in his own personal chambers.

He continued to the next letter, unaware of its painful contents.

* * *

-to be continued-


	6. Chapter 5

She was bent over some herbs in her garden, carefully weeding out the unhealthy plants, when her mother visited that strange day. It was peaceful and calm; Aragorn was napping nearby, under the shade of a tree. She smiled to see the light dappling over him, and it gave her great hope to see him so innocent.

Perhaps her mother's words were for naught, she mused, and he might live free of that yoke, destiny. But her smile fell when a shadow fell over his form, and she looked to see her mother standing not far away.

"Mother!" she said, surprised. "What brings you?"

Her mother turned-she had been facing away from her daughter-and eyed her sorrowfully.

"He is your hope, Gilraen."

"I was thinking the very same."

But her mother seemed to grow more sorrowful at this.

"Always remember: _hope_."

She did not approach her daughter, but instead, her grandson. She knelt and kissed him on the brow, murmuring something Gilraen couldn't understand. Without a word, she left Gilraen's garden; wiping tears away, Gilraen noticed.

She left her daughter bewildered.

Gilraen puzzled over her mother's visit for hours afterward. She could make no sense of them, despite trying various inflections, including the one her mother used. And though Aragorn was typically a cheerful distraction, this day he seemed sluggish, almost ill. She had to check several times to be sure he was not, wondering at the source of all the unnatural behavior.

Evening came, and she discovered why, and how, and when. She received the news gracefully, allowing the dispatch rider to tend to his horse without awkwardness. She stood alone at the large fire in the middle of the camp, cold despite the heat the blaze gave. She knew Aragorn was waiting for her, but one moment she had to have for herself.

It was here that they had married, around the fire. It was here he had been told of Aragorn's impending birth. It was here he had so often sat, his son in his lap. Gilraen had many a fond memory of bringing the men their drink while news was shared and discussed. She would sit as the talk died down, and the men rested before finally going to their beds. Then the small family would have a precious few minutes together, without worry, and without words or news or talk…just _them_.

Lost in memories, Gilraen did not notice the sons of Elrond taking her arm and guiding her to a cot to sleep. She did not notice their command to her mother to tend to Aragorn in Gilraen's absence, or when they brought the stretcher to the fire for the ceremonial decoration and burial to take place in three days.

All she knew was this blank despair that seemed to prevent her from moving forward. She felt suspended in time, it having stopped when she heard the words:

"He is gone, milady."

She was aware there was more, that Arathorn received an arrow through the eye 'so he suffered none', but none of it registered. The despair had blanketed then, wrapped her up so closely that Gilraen, in future days, would recall the odd sensation of having been wrapped in a physical, scratchy blanket, though none was given her.

She came to at a light touch from one of the lads, gently offering her a drink. It was the same lad who had carved Aragorn the wooden horse, Halbarad. She accepted it, in silence, struggling to say something. Anything.

Halbarad, realizing her struggle, merely nodded and patted her shoulder.

She took a sip of the drink, and looked around consciously. She was not far from the large fire, being beneath an erected awning. In and of itself, that was worrisome: awnings were built when space had become unavailable in the homes, and _that_ occurred only with many wounded.

She noticed a man lying near the fire, and without quite realizing it, ventured near. Only as she knelt to identify him did she release a keening wail, the first sound she made in a full day and half a day.

She didn't hear the footsteps, but felt a gentle hand pull her away and close. It was one of the sons of Elrond, offering comfort where there was none. She fought him, out of a need to fight someone, to find a person to blame.

"He died protecting those he loved," the elf said. "He would not have died any other way."

Gilraen knew he spoke truth. Yet it did not dilute the pain.

"He had this in his possession," the elf continued, gesturing to his right. His brother approached, having obviously been nearby, and placed a leather bag next to her. It was worn, scratched, and she did not dare try to identify a stain coloring one corner. But it was familiar, as were its contents.

"You may sort through them, Lady Gilraen, but we must reach Imdadris. The party of orcs that attacked us likely had friends. They will be searching for the heir."

It was with this knowledge that instinct took entire control over Gilraen. She bowed her head, gathered herself, and stood up fiercely. The sons of Elrond, still kneeling, both watched her as she stared at them, eyes burning with fatigue, loss, and love.

Gilraen did not turn from them or bend under their gaze as she hoarsely asked, "What must I do?"

_My son,_

_He is dead._

_It is the utter, awful truth._

_I am dead._

_It is the utter, awful truth. Without my husband, how can I live?_

_But live I must, for you. For you and the possibility of any that might come after, for _you_ are now the only heir._

_I should not even write those words. Lord Elrond tells me that should the Enemy find this correspondence, it could mean the end of this world. Of me, of you, and of Men, Elves, and all free folk._

_But I do not listen to him._

_For you are all I have._

_The ride here- for obviously I am now in Imladris, what we call Rivendell – was taxing and long. The sons of Elrond tell me that in actuality the ride was less than a sevenday. I felt it lasted years. It was strangely clear and beautiful the entire journey. Every night I watched the stars, and wondered if your father was among them, seeking me._

_You were quiet the entire journey, also odd. You are still so, with none of the energy and cheer you carried previously. What is wrong, my son? What ails you? You turn from me, wearily, as my mother did _that_ day before she kissed you on the brow._

_When we arrived, the elves watched us curiously, if not anxiously. I was intimidated by the sheer beauty of this place and of the folk around me and, shamefully, did not greet them. I was taken to a room furnished with a bed and crib, and laid just as gently as you were, to bed. No-one bothered us for some time, as we were both asleep instantly._

_Though I still grieve, I must be strong. I must be your mother first, before a wife widow. It has been nearly a fortnight, and I have spent enough time in my own thoughts. After this, you are all I know and care for. You are all I love._

_I will address Elrond concerning this matter, and inquire to tasks I can undertake while we remain here. I admit, I have a desire to return, but my heart tells me otherwise. As my heart also tells me that what ails you is something beyond my aid._

_Be well, my son._

_Your loving_

_Mother_

_

* * *

_-to be continued-


	7. Chapter 6

Eldarion slowly released the parchment, hardly realizing he did so. So that answered one of his questions: his father's father had been killed. He looked again at the portrait, this time more closely. The man shown seemed to suddenly be more grave, and years of wisdom hung on his brow. And yet- he was young. The grey eyes that so matched his son's in color, also matched them for mischief.

What would it have been like for his father, to be still a child when his parent passed? In this, Eldarion knew himself to be fortunate: he had had a lifetime, and perhaps, this was a reason his father-this was getting too confusing, he'd start referring to him as Aragorn- perhaps this was a reason Aragorn chose his death. It was a gift, to be able to choose, rather than being felled as a result of evil.

In the midst of his contemplation, a knock sounded on the door. Eldarion started, and blinked…how late had it gotten? The light was dimmer, and less gold; Earendil was risen.

In came his mother, pale and sad. She wore the black gown of mourning, accompanied by a circlet that signified her rank as former Queen. Her eyes were wet, her son observed.

"Mother?" he asked, softly. Of any, his mother grieved the most, for reasons Eldarion didn't quite understand.

She said nothing in response, just shook her head and went to the window. She stood, face blank, before curling herself on the window seat. For the first time, Eldarion saw how slim she was and how singularly alone she must feel.

They sat in silence before Eldarion cleared his throat. "I found letters," he said, feeling remarkably guilty, as if he had snuck a treat from the kitchens (as a child, he was fond of baked apple slices). Again, his mother stayed silent.

"They're from his mother."

At this, his own mother visibly shook. "Let me see them." A command, rather than request or question. Eldarion wondered at the strange response; his mother did not often command, especially since Aragorn's death.

He obeyed, though, cautiously removing himself from the bed (so as not to disturb either letter box or personal effects…what would he do with them?) and crossed to sit also on the seat. The sky was clear, tonight, and Earendil's light was enough to read from. "I've read only a few," he admitted, arranging himself opposite his mother. His mother made an affirming noise and took the ones he held out to her, including the last, telling of Aragorn's father's death.

"I knew him in one way only," she said. "As an adult, burdened by much and resting little." She turned her head, blinking tears away. Eldarion was startled yet again; he thought his parents knew each other well...?

"Not all was well with us, Eldarion. We were each different, raised in different worlds, each a different race…" Here she trailed off, looking down at the letters.

"We disagreed on many things, son. We put forth a united appearance to help strengthen his claim. " Seeing the look on Eldarion's face, she added wryly, "I was not an Elven princess for naught."

"Your father and I- with such different childhoods, we never spoke much of them. I am indeed curious to know his mother. We shared a father, but mothers were foreign between us. When I birthed you, Aragorn was forced to bring forth these very letters-"

"-you knew of them?"

"Yes, and he read them repeatedly, searching for all he could find of child care. Among the letters then was a small book, detailing all of his sicknesses. My father was very scrupulous in caring for Aragorn and all other heirs. I recall it being sent with my brothers-"

Another detail that Eldarion did not remember. Unless…

"Elladan and Elrohir?"

His mother _smiled_. "The very same."

Eldarion inwardly rejoiced. He had elves for uncles! He wished he had known the relation before. The image of himself calling the stern elves 'uncle' amused him.

"They, too, are grieved for his loss. I know he was close to them." His mother's expression returned to that of sadness. "The book should be in their possession, or somewhere in the King's Library."

"But I myself never read these letters. Aragorn kept them close, and it was one part of himself he never shared. As I never shared my memories of my mother."

Eldarion could barely grasp all that he was hearing. There was a history here, much more complex than he had imagined.

"I thank you for letting me see them. Perhaps- perhaps I could understand."

Understand what? Eldarion was tempted to ask, but seeing the mournful face before him prevented any forthcoming inquiry.

Eldarion watched his mother's hand trace the letters, more of a caress. The whiteness of her complexion seemed to reflect the starlight. He wondered again at the past, before returning to the traces of it in his hand. The next letter was waiting.

* * *

Author's Note: So Arwen makes an appearance. I honestly didn't expect her to, but she insisted. And her brothers may yet make their own visible appearances. This chapter is a kind of filler, before I return to my initial storyline.

I hope I have stayed true to Arwen's character; though wise (as all elves) she would have had immense difficulties with being married to Aragorn. She lost her family and her very self by marrying him. Though they would have been happy, there must have been conflict from the transition of Elven identity to that of human identity. It is my idea that they would not have spoken much about their respective mothers; Arwen would have been much grieved, still, as would Aragorn. However, Aragorn had yet the hope of seeing his mother again, while Arwen was permanently estranged. Thus is Aragorn's death even more bitter to her.

Thanks to **Blueberry**, **Macheil**, and **Elrond Fan** for the encouragement! You guys keep me hoping...I apologize for the delay. RL is kind of involving. But there will be another update soon, though whether it's for this or another piece I have yet to determine.

-to be continued-


	8. Chapter 7

Gilraen sat quietly, though impatiently. She had to quell the urge to pace, and instead, examined her surroundings curiously. She was in the Lord Elrond's study, and it was interesting, to say the least.

The room itself was large, and airy; she was in one of the many comfortable chairs arranged precisely in a circle about the fire. No doubt this room was used for private conferences. A wooden shelf ran end-to end on the left side, filled with scrolls, books, and miscellaneous artifacts. Music drifted in from the Hall of Fire, which was connected to this room through a door in the right corner. In the opposite corner sat a desk, bare except for a quill, ink and a single piece of parchment. It seemed almost unused, she thought, and she wondered why.

Gilraen sat for a few moments more before her restlessness finally took hold, and she began to wander about, stopping here and there at an item of interest. What most fascinated her were the artifacts; there were various minuscule portraits, not unlike those she'd seen before, and a variety of small weapons: knives and daggers, decorated grandly with house emblems. There were a few pieces of jewelry, including a ring and a necklace that seemed to be entangled. Without thinking, she reached for them, and began to pull the necklace from the ring.

"I see you have discovered my collection," said a voice behind her, sounding both amused and sad. Gilraen started and looked around; there was an elf standing by the fire.

Lord Elrond.

"My Lord, I did not mean to-"

He held up a hand to indicate silence. "All is well. I meant for you to find them. Come, sit by the fire. We have much to discuss."

He moved closer to the fire, and waited while she crossed the room. As she situated herself, he spoke again. "You love your son."

"I do." Gilraen finally settled herself in a position that would not, she hoped, betray anxiety.

"Would you stay with him?" His grey eyes- so like her husband's!- probed her own.

"Why would there be a need for me to be away from him?" She returned calmly.

"We live in dark times, Lady Gilraen. There may be yet a time when we are all sundered from our kin." Lord Elrond moved to his desk, and, from a place she couldn't quite see, pulled a pouch from within. Dark in color, it was woven intricately, and was held shut by a pull-string. From a distance, she could not determine the design, but as he walked closer, she gasped.

"A grey star! It's of old Numenorean design. "

"It is," he affirmed, and passed it to her. She dropped the ring and necklace into her lap, abandoning them while she examined the pouch.

"The ring and it belong together. The ring you hold is that of Barahir; my son removed it from your husband before they brought him to camp."

"I wondered at its misplacement. It should have been in his saddlebag that they returned to me." Gilraen was not angry, but her tone was sharp. She had recognized the ring not long after she had picked it up.

"They could not afford to lose it."

"I am not a child!"

"You are not," he agreed quietly. "But of what your son?"

"What of him?" she addressed him coldly. She felt assaulted, and confused, as to what Lord Elrond was directing her to.

"Your son has a remarkable gift. Should he have picked up the ring, he might not have been able to make the journey to safety, and all would have been lost."

Gilraen felt again bewilderment. The emotion was becoming all-too-familiar. "My Lord, I am afraid I do not understand."

"I speak of fore-sight." Lord Elrond turned to face the fire, sighing. "Are you familiar with it?"

Gilraen's blood drained from her face. She thought of the hours before she received word of Arathorn's death, her mother's visit, and her son's behavior afterward.

"You do not mean to say my mother passed it on to him?" she asked, astonished. She had not been gifted, a fact which had disappointed her mother, until both women discovered Gilraen's handiness with healing herbs.

"Your mother?" He glanced at Gilraen piercingly.

Gilraen quailed. "She came to visit. She-she told me 'always remember: _hope_' and then whispered words above my son and kissed his brow."

"Your mother is a gifted woman. I knew she also had fore-sight, but this is remarkable. It may influence what I am about to tell you." Lord Elrond sat in a chair across from the woman, filing away this new information for study later. The desk certainly was used, contrary to its appearance.

"Fore-sight is a gift found among those of Elven blood. It, as its name indicates, is a condition in which is received a portent of the future, either through vision or touch. Elven blood runs strong in Numenoreans, now Dunedain, though the people dwindle. Thus have certain generations been able to prevent your home from being discovered. "

He clasped his hands loosely together. "It tended to manifest in those most sensitive to other people. Your son," he inclined his head towards her, "is certainly charming. Your mother, as well, was receptive to the people around her. She went through many hours of discipline with a friend of mine, before she could learn to control her gift. "

"Does this surprise you?"

"No," Gilraen answered slowly, "it does not." With this information, her confusion was dissipating and certain memories now made sense. Her mother often leaving her with a relative twice a month, and the many times she had to be quiet when her mother suddenly grew still and prayed to the Valar.

"Your mother may simply have drawn the gift to the surface. Visions generally do not occur until well into adulthood, but she may have foreseen something to make her act otherwise."

Gilraen studied the ring idly. Snake and green, snake and green, her mind half-chanted, as a memory replayed itself: a version of her ran to her mother laughing joyfully about her betrothal. "She has acted many times without explanation…Lord Elrond, what will happen to my son? He is but an infant."

"Even if he weren't the only heir, he would stay here, and learn under the same teacher your mother did. However, as he is the sole heir, he must be hidden so entirely that the Enemy can never find him until the time to reclaim the throne has come. "

"Surely you don't mean to make him forget his home?" Gilraen stood indignantly. "I have raised him well- he would not be found!"

"Peace, my Lady. He will not forget. He will only remember when the time is right."

"Ask questions not of the elves, for they will say both yes and no," she said angrily. However, after a few moments of the Lord Elrond watching her, she sat back down. It was downright unnerving.

"If he stays, I will stay," she said firmly. "There is no-one for me to return to. He is all I have left in the world."

Lod Elrond smiled. "I had hoped you would say that. It brings me to the necklace; your mother left that in my safekeeping, many years ago. Send it back; she will know its meaning."

Gilraen squashed the thought that she had been manipulated. Being manipulated by the Elves was surely better than being manipulated by the Enemy. At any rate, she was in a haven, one of the last safe places left.

"I will-" She hesitated. If she was definitely to stay, what would she do? She had sought the Lord Elrond out before, but being occupied with the recovery of two of the most dangerously injured Dunedain, and a leg wound by one of his sons, he had not been readily available.

"Do you have any questions?"

"-as a matter of fact, I do. What can I do here? Your servants provide all you need, and I am not certain I am good enough to aid a craftsman."

The Lord Elrond stood then, and studied her intently. "Do you know of healing lore?"

"Yes, I do, and of all the herbs. My mother and I found that I was adept at healing."

He nodded, satisfied. "I will send Healer Figwit to you, then. He will take you as an apprentice. "

Gilraen nodded as well, feeling suddenly very weary. "My I take my rest, my Lord?" At the affirmative, she went out, feeling a very strong desire to write.

One of Elrond's sons had Aragorn with him today, in an attempt to draw him out of his unusual quiet temperament. Now that they knew the source, they could aid him with it.

Gilraen was thankful for that service, since she could do nothing.

While she waited for their return, she drew forth her writing materials and wrote steadily.

_My dear son,_

_I have an understanding now of why you must be hidden. Lord Elrond did not speak specifically of the dangers, but I know what he means. I must not be stubborn. It will tax my strength, to have you unknown to our people, and our home, but it must be done._

_I understand now, too, why you seem so ill. Lord Elrond has discovered you may have the gift of fore-sight. I did not inquire as to how he knows, but to an Elf, perhaps fore-sight is more visible than to a human. I was told once that people gifted so could recognize others similarly gifted…if that were true, would Lord Elrond be gifted also?_

_I am to work as a healer's apprentice. I am fairly happy, but sad that I cannot return home. My mother is there, but she, I've been told, will take my place. I do not miss her, surprisingly. She is very capable. She has not needed me for some time, as she still has my father. I am separate, now, regardless; custom holds that marriage sunders a woman from her family, which is why I told Lord Elrond you are all I have left. You _are_, my son. So she has my place, and our home.__ Our people are in good hands, while they wait for yours.  
_

_I will miss most our garden where we played. Here, there are gardens, but none with our special rocks, or the little white star-flowers. _

_You are returned! I must gift the Lord Elladan. Perhaps a bundle of herbs? Healer Figwit might know...Figwit. What an unusual name. I think I will inquire as to its origin._

_I love you, my _Estel.

_Your loving_

_Mother_

* * *

-to be continued-


End file.
